The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 03 - The Fall of Dorkhun

by D. A. Adams

  Roskin sat in a chair against the wall, and his friends took seats against the wall perpendicular to him. Bordorn entertained Krondious with stories about Roskin’s temper as a youth, and the king interrupted a few times to add details the Ghaldeon had forgotten. Krondious laughed heartily, but Roskin blushed, seeing his own foolishness. He now understood why he had been like that, partially from being pampered but also from having his fighting skills stifled by the peacefulness of his kingdom. Instead of being properly trained, he had been asked to repress who he was, but Crushaw and Molgheon had taught him much about self-control, a must if a warrior wants to live long. Now, part of him wished he could go back and apologize for his ridiculous tantrums.

  His mind drifted to his mother. He hadn’t thought about her since his birthday, which he’d spent marching across the plains, and on that day, for the first time in his life, he hadn’t wondered if she was going to show up and surprise him. Seeing her in the forest, whether or not it was real, had eased much of his hurt. He understood where she was and why she had to be there, and that gave him comfort. Like before in the dining room, a warm feeling enveloped him and he found himself looking at her as she tended to the vegetables in her garden high in the trees. She looked up from a tomato plant and smiled at him, and also like before, a voice whispered inside his head that she loved him very much. He concentrated on her image and thought “I love you, too.” She smiled even more broadly, and her fierce eyes filled with moisture.

  Then, without warning, he was back in his father’s chamber, and Bordorn was still telling stories from childhood. His father was hard at work on official documents, and attendants came and went from the room, delivering finished papers to the appropriate runners. Roskin watched his father, noticing the seriousness with which he conducted kingly business. Roskin had rarely gotten to see his father work, only the occasional trip to council meetings to observe routine matters.

  There were many similarities between how his father behaved and how Crushaw had led the army of freed slaves. When he spoke, there was no trace of doubt, but he didn’t come across as threatening or bullying. He was simply in charge, and when he told someone to do something, there was no room given for debate. His mannerisms were also similar, like how he held his shoulders and how his face contorted as he concentrated on what was before him. Roskin smiled, realizing that like the old general his father was a good leader.

  King Kraganere finished signing the last document and handed it to the attendant across the table. He explained where it needed to go, and the attendant hustled from the room with the sealed paper. The king stood, stretched, and asked if Roskin and the others were ready to practice for the ceremony. The three dwarves stood, and the king called to the hallway for another attendant. He asked the young dwarf to gather his generals and staff, and the attendant excused herself. Roskin asked if he could speak to his father in private, and Bordorn and Krondious followed her into the hallway. Roskin closed the door and turned to face his father.

  “What’s on your mind, son?”

  “I need to explain something,” Roskin said, crossing the room. “You and I must be the only ones who know this.”

  The king adjusted in his seat, concern on his face.

  “I asked Captain Roighwheil to return to Dorkhun and spy on Master Sondious.”

  The king studied his son’s face but remained quiet.

  “He’s up to something. We need to know what before we get there. Please, don’t be mad.”

  “No, you’re right. I should’ve done that myself.”

  “The captain should be on his way already. We should know something in a few days.”

  The king slumped onto his chair and buried his face in his hands. Roskin walked over and gently touched his father’s shoulder, and the king reached up and grasped his son’s hand.

  “He’s my best friend, Roskin. How’d it come to this?”

  “When I was a slave, I tried to escape. I killed a Tredjard to do it. I didn’t even think twice. I saw a chance to get away, and nothing else mattered. Maybe, when the ogres had Master Sondious, something inside him snapped like that, and he hasn’t come back yet.”

  “He’ll never come back, Roskin. My friend is gone. I don’t know this dwarf.”

  “He trusts the captain.”

  “Yes, that was a smart choice.”

  “Let’s practice this ceremony and get ready for tomorrow. Like you said, we’ll deal with Master Sondious when we get back to Dorkhun.”

  The king nodded and stood. The two dwarves left the room and found the others in the hallway. The attendant had returned with the generals and the other attendants she had hand picked for the ceremony. She moved close to the king and whispered to him that she couldn’t find Captain Roighwheil, and he whispered back that the captain had been summoned to Dorkhun for a personal matter. Then, the king announced to the gathering to follow him to the courtyard where they would rehearse where to stand and how to behave during the truce ceremony. As the group filed down the hallway, Roskin followed at the rear. Bordorn had befriended a couple of the attendants and walked with them, but Krondious waited for Roskin and stayed near as they made their way to the front of the house.

  ***

  The Kiredurks stood in well-formed lines along a ridge to the north of the gate. Even a few hundred yards away, the stench of the dead was pungent. The first line contained King Kraganere, Roskin, Krondious, Bordorn, and the generals. The second and third lines were infantry, stretching twice as wide as the front, the fourth and fifth crossbow archers, and the final the attendants. The wagons of food and gold were already on a path that led down the ridge and into the ogres’ camp. The king had decided not to include mules to pull the wagons, figuring the ogres could provide their own beasts of burden, so the wagons sat unhitched, guarded by the elite unit.

  Across from them and a dozen yards down the ridge, the ogres stood in their lines, facing the dwarves and waiting. Roskin scanned their lines and found Vishghu, who stood in the second row near the center. He hadn’t been certain she would be there but was glad to see her, even under these circumstances. He wanted to speak to her and couldn’t reconcile that just a few months before they had fought together but now stood across from each other like enemies. He owed her his life and vowed one day to see that she was honored.

  His father touched his elbow, and the two dwarves, king and heir, walked forward from the lines. Two ogres also walked to meet them. Roskin was dressed in new clothes tailored to fit his thinner frame. His sword was sheathed on his belt, and his axes, freshly polished and glinting in the morning light, were on his back. His father wore his best armor, also polished and shimmering, and carried his most elaborate battle axe. The two ogres wore their thickest furs and carried ornate clubs. As rehearsed, Roskin and his father stopped a few feet away and placed their weapons on the ground before moving closer. The ogres hesitated but then laid their clubs on the still dew-damp grass.

  Once all four were within arm’s reach, the king spoke, going through the usual diplomatic etiquette, and the ogre across from him responded in kind. Roskin stood still and silent. Now that he was a little closer, he made eye contact with Vishghu and nodded. She returned the gesture, but neither smiled for fear of offending someone on the other side. Nonetheless, Roskin saw on her face that they were still friends, and that was enough. Once the king and the head matriarch had gone through the tactful routine, Roskin handed his father the final draft of the truce accord that had been signed by both king and heir. The king handed it to the matriarch, and she glanced over it to make sure nothing had been changed. Satisfied, she handed to the copy that had been sent to her earlier and contained her signature.

  “You can leave a team here to bury your dead, and we will assist in any way necessary,” the king said, bowing slightly.

  “We will send our best people to design and build a suitable monument.”

  “Just let me know what materials you need.”

  “This whole affair has
been regrettable.”

  “War always is,” the king said.

  “True. We know war all too well.”

  “My hope,” King Kraganere said. “Is that one day we can put this behind us and once again be allies.”

  The ogre shrugged slightly, then turned and strode back to her lines, stopping for her club. The other one followed, and the two dwarves also retrieved their weapons. The king signaled to the elite unit to move from the wagons towards the gate. Then, he signaled to the generals to lead everyone underground. Roskin quickened his pace to catch the elite unit before it reached the gate, and when he caught them asked the sergeant if he could speak to Captain Roighwheil’s son for a moment. Gruffly, the sergeant agreed and called for the dwarf to hurry. The captain’s son stepped out of line and jogged towards the heir. His left cheek had a thick scar just above his beard, and he had a slight limp.

  “Kanwheil, it’s been a long time,” Roskin said when his former sparring partner reached him.

  “Yes it has, my lord.”

  “You don’t have to call me that,” Roskin returned, stepping from the other soldiers as they filed towards the entrance.

  “Is everything okay,” Kanwheil asked, moving with him.

  “Your father has gone to Dorkhun to check on something for me. I can’t tell you much more.”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “No. He’s fine.”

  “He’s worried about what happened before the war, that stuff with that little weasel.”

  “All I can tell you is that he serves the kingdom, no matter what anyone else tells you. Please, remember that.”

  “He’s a good soldier,” Kanwheil said, rubbing the scar on his cheek.

  “So are you, my friend.”

  “Can I speak freely, my lord?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just so you know,” Kanwheil said, lowering his voice and leaning in slightly. “There’s more than a few of the troops who blame you for this mess.”

  “I count myself as one of them.”

  “I just thought you should know that.”

  “Better get back to your unit before that sergeant gets angry,” Roskin said, extending his hand.

  “He stays that way,” Kanwheil answered, smiling somewhat. His grip was nearly as strong as his father’s.

  The dwarf jogged back to his unit, which had assembled outside the gate and was waiting for the king and generals to pass before entering. Roskin also jogged to catch his father and walk with him. The War of the Eastern Gate was over, but Roskin knew that a lot of work remained to return the kingdom to peace, and though he had suspected that some may resent him, what Kanwheil had said weighed on him. It would take a great deal of time to rebuild his reputation and gain the respect of troops who had bled and lost their friends at his expense.

  ***

  The shield forged for Bordorn fit around his left arm in two places – above his bicep near his deltoid and also just above his elbow. The shield extended from right above his shoulder to a foot below where his arm ended and was oblong in shape. In the middle, it was eighteen inches wide and tapered to six inches at both ends. The metal was dark gray and polished smooth on the outer side. The inner part was reinforced by three cross bars. In all, it weighed over thirty pounds, and before he had spent months working with the logging crew, he probably couldn’t have wielded it, but now, he carried it easily. His sword was very basic, a short blade merely a foot and half long with a fuller running the length of each side. Though not ornate, both the shield and sword were functional.

  Krondious’s axe stood three feet tall, nearly to his chin, and each blade extended out a foot. The blades curved in a crescent and were sharp as razors. The metal was nearly black and hadn’t been polished, so it reflected very little light. The handle had been wrapped tightly with leather straps that offered an excellent grip. At the base of the handle, the tang was fashioned into a hammer head, offering not only a counter-weight but an additional weapon as well. The axe weighed under forty pounds, but with his massive arms, Krondious held it as easily as Roskin held his sword.

  As the two dwarves handled their new weapons, Roskin settled his bill with the blacksmiths. He added an extra gold coin for each and thanked them for their speed. He was about to leave when they stopped him and said they had a gift. Krondious and Bordorn stopped playing with their weapons and came closer to see what it was. One of the blacksmiths produced a sword the same size as Bordorn’s, but a near perfect replica of Grussard’s blade. Other than the size, the other major difference was the color. The smiths had forged it with both the black and shiny metals together, and the sword was a marbled texture similar to Roskin’s beard.

  “We wanted to make it striped,” one of the smiths explained. “But this was the best we could do.”

  “This is awesome,” Roskin said, beaming at the beauty of the weapon.

  “Nice,” Krondious said.

  “That fits you,” Bordorn added.

  “We wanted something to honor you. Your father gave us back our pride.”

  “I am honored. I’m sure my father will appreciate it, too.”

  “Here,” the other smith said. “Let me attach your scabbard.”

  The blacksmith slid the leather strap through Roskin’s belt and fastened it to the lower hook on the scabbard, and Roskin reached around and sheathed the short sword.

  “Look at you,” Bordorn said. “Who’d have thought the skinny little dwarf I used to boss around would one day carry two axes, two swords, and a dagger. Just so you know, I was only teasing you back then.”

  “That so?” Roskin asked, smiling. “You seemed pretty sure of yourself.”

  “Folly of youth,” Bordorn returned, and all five dwarves shared a good laugh.

  “Well, like you said, once you learn how to use this shield, you’ll be bossing me around again in no time.”

  “We’d better get moving,” Krondious said, hoisting his axe over his shoulder. “Your father has probably already started for Dorkhun.”

  “Kronny’s right,” Bordorn said, sheathing his new sword in the scabbard one of the blacksmiths still held. The smith handed the sword and scabbard back, and Bordorn clutched it in his right hand.

  “What’d you call me?” Krondious asked, stopping at the door but not turning.

  “That’s my new name for you.”

  “Get used to it,” Roskin said, slapping Krondious on the back. “He won’t call anyone by their real name.”

  Again, the dwarves shared a laugh, and the three young warriors said good bye to the blacksmiths before heading for the road to Dorkhun. Bordorn and Krondious were still bickering about the new nickname as they turned onto the main road, but without warning, the dark fear washed through Roskin, and he saw again, even more vividly this time, the vision of the capital in ruins. Buildings lay in rubble, fires raged, and voices cried in agony. Roskin fell to his knees from the images, gasping for air.

  “Pepper Beard!” Bordorn gasped, reaching for him.

  Krondious squatted beside him and asked what was the matter. Roskin caught his breath and looked first at Bordorn and then at Krondious. The concern on their faces was as sincere as any he had ever seen, and he was grateful to have these two with him to face whatever terror waited for them in Dorkhun. He got to his feet and brushed the dust from his knees and palms.

  “We have to hurry,” he said. “We have to catch up to my father.”

  Chapter 9

  Gathering Near the Valley

  Leinjar woke early and relieved the Ghaldeon who had taken the last watch. The sleepy dwarf stretched out on the floor to get more rest before the day began. Moving quietly so as not to wake anyone, Leinjar prepared the stove for the breakfast fire. As he snapped small pieces of wood for kindling, his mind drifted to the life he had before slavery. At some point after his capture, he had forced himself to stop worrying about his family and had concocted an elaborate life for them in his mind. His wife had met someone fine and upstandi
ng, who then gave his sons a good life. The boys had forgotten their father, for it would be easier to forget him than be reminded constantly that he was the one who had failed to protect the gate. While a leisure slave, he survived by convincing himself they were living a good life.

  Now that he was free and back in the western mountains, he wondered if they really were happy, if their lives had been everything he had dreamed. In his heart, he knew more than likely his wife had been shunned because of his failure, and his children had probably been relegated to service in the lowest class of hard laborers. The guilt he carried for not defending his home was crushing. He couldn’t imagine returning there, to bring his shame to their doorstep. For all their sakes, it was best to deliver Torkdohn and Jase to Dorkhun and live out his days among the Kiredurks.

  Once he had the stove ready, he rummaged through the food the Ghaldeons had brought from the wagon the previous night and found enough slices of cured meats to make everyone breakfast. The food had been Torkdohn’s and had been sufficient to get him, his crew, and his captive back into the conquered lands, but now with six extra mouths, the rations were running low. They needed wild game to get to the Kiredurk lands.

  He looked around Bressard’s pantry and found little other than beans, cucumbers, and tomatoes, most of which had been canned in glass jars. The old dwarf had no meat, no spices, and nothing to make cheese. It reminded Leinjar of being in the cage and only having scraps from the lowly orcs. Rarely did the leisure slaves get more than half-rotten vegetables, and he sympathized with the old dwarf, who had grown too old to hunt and probably felt half-starved most of the time. Leinjar knew that feeling, the deep desperation of needing nourishment but not having the means to find it. That was no way to live and was not a just end for someone who had offered so much generosity to those in need. The previous night, before everyone had settled in, Molgheon had told stories about Bressard and what he had done for the soldiers of the Resistance. He deserved better.